


Trench Coats, Lotto Tickets, and Unlikely Meetings

by topazwinters



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Fluff, Inspired By Tumblr, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, student loans suck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-24
Updated: 2014-07-24
Packaged: 2018-02-10 05:51:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2013495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/topazwinters/pseuds/topazwinters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a Tumblr prompt by imaginitis: "sherlock au where john and sherlock are in their mid-twenties. john is working at a convenience store in london, trying to start paying off his student loans.  sherlock is looking to buy a package of cigarets. when checking out, john asks if he would like to by a lotto ticket. sherlock responds with a long rant about the chances of winning and gambling addictions. john asks what his deal is and sherlock explains the consulting detective bit. john tells him that if he goes half on a ticket with him on a ticket and they win, he’ll move into the biggest flat in town with him and be his crime fighting sidekick. the whole thing is very funny to the two strangers, until they actually win."</p><p>I'm... somewhat procrastinating editing my novel, so I decided to write this instead. Sorry not sorry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trench Coats, Lotto Tickets, and Unlikely Meetings

It’s pure luck that John meets the man in the trench coat.

He sweeps into the store at 11:00 sharp, right at the time that John’s shift is ending. He almost apologises, tells the man that they’re closed and to come back in the morning – he’s exhausted and just wants to go home, but there’s something about the man that makes him stop and promise himself that he’ll just stay for five more minutes.

Thankfully, Trench Coat Man seems to know exactly what he wants – doesn’t waste time dallying about like some of John’s customers, and John likes that about him right away.

He points to the cigarettes in the case behind John. “I’d like a pack of Lambert & Butler, please,” he says, voice deep and commanding, and John can’t help but sit up and listen. He turns and takes one of the packs – boldly emblazoned with the proclamation that SMOKING KILLS, which John agrees with; he’s got a medical degree, after all, and has seen the consequences of smoking up close and personal – and slides it across the counter. His fingers brush against Trench Coat Man’s startlingly pale ones as he says “That’s £7.82.”

It’s when Trench Coat Man pulls out his wallet and hands over the money that John remembers the obligatory question. The manager of the store had drilled it into him when he was hired – apparently they made 40% of their sales on lotto tickets, so all of the shop attendants were required to ask, regardless of what the customer was purchasing. John’s unpaid student loans would not thank him if he lost this job, so he’s never broken the rule – but still, he does not approve of the lotto any more than he approves of cigarettes, so it’s with some annoyance that he says, “And would you like to buy a lotto ticket?”

Utter silence.

John risks a glance up at Trench Coat Man’s face and sees that his bottle green eyes are narrowing, his head tilting ever so slightly. “A lotto ticket?” he says slowly, pronouncing the words as if they are the harbingers of all evil. “A _lotto ticket?_ Do you realise what the probability is of winning the lotto?” He plunges on, not even waiting for John’s answer, and the numbers roll off his tongue as naturally as anything: “It’s 1 in 13,983,816. Only an idiot would waste his money on a 1 in 14 million chance to” – and here his voice turns high, mocking – “make all their dreams come true! Not to mention the _highly_ likely risk of a gambling addiction occurring; something that, contrary to popular belief, even the highest-ranging minds can succumb to. There is a _reason_ that the founders of the lotto are some of the richest people in Britain today, and that is because they have found an admittedly ingenious way of taking advantage of all the fools who grace the streets of this pathetically dim-witted country. If you believe that _I,_ of all people, would fall prey to such a –”

“Calm down, mate!”

John interjects Trench Coat Man’s rant – mostly because he’s slightly concerned about the way the bloke seems to be working himself into a frenzy, talking faster and faster and waving his hands at random in the air – and thankfully, the words seem to placate him the slightest bit. Once he’s breathing normally, John raises his eyebrows. “Want to tell me what that was all about?”

“What do you mean?”

“That’s about the strongest reaction to a question I’ve ever received,” John tells him pointedly. “Also, how exactly did you know the probability of winning the lotto? Not really information a normal person carries around.”

John gets a feeling Trench Coat Man would have rolled his eyes if he were anyone else. Instead he just smirks. “It’s my business to know what other people don’t know.” 

Now John is confused. “Sorry, what?” he says.

“The name’s Sherlock Holmes,” Trench Coat Man says. “I’m a consulting detective. Only one in the world – I invented the job.” Before John can ask what in hell that’s supposed to mean, Trench Coat Man – _Sherlock Holmes,_ and of course someone as odd as him would have that kind of a name – continues: “It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me.” 

John only nods, somewhat dumbfounded.

But it’s when Sherlock Holmes is turning to leave, having apparently decided that their conversation is over, that John finds his voice. “Wait a second,” he says, and the man turns back. 

John is not normally a reckless man. His brief stint in the army before college has taught him to obey orders, to stay in line, to not push boundaries, because it could get someone killed – but the idea comes on whim and he runs with it. “Split a ticket with me,” John tells Sherlock Holmes. “Half-half.” Before the man can get his protests out, John continues, because there’s something he likes about Sherlock Holmes – something that makes him ignore his usual aversion to the lotto, lean across the counter, meet the narrowed bottle green eyes, and say with the tiniest smirk of his own: “And if we win, we’ll buy the most expensive flat in London together and I’ll help you fight crimes. I’m a doctor, you know. I’ll bet you could use me.”

For a split second, Sherlock Holmes is silent. 

Finally he raises his eyebrows, reaches for his wallet once more, and with the utmost care, places a £1 coin on the counter. He stares at it in silence for a moment, then his eyes meet John’s expectantly – and John reaches into his pocket and adds two more 50p coins.

For a moment, they simply look at each other. 

Then John reaches into the drawer where they keep the lotto cards and hands one over to Sherlock Holmes. “What numbers?” he asks.

“39. 21. 40. 37. 19. 2,” Sherlock Holmes says, rapid-fire, and John has to rush to scrawl them all down. He supposes it doesn’t matter, anyway – it’s not as if they’re going to actually _win,_ so he may as well just pull any random numbers out of the air and use those instead. Still, Sherlock Holmes seems dead serious, so John complies. 

Then, almost before John can look up, Sherlock Holmes has turned and is sweeping out of the shop. He stops at the door, turns, and, mouth quirking up ever so slightly to the side, says: “We’ll see if the odds are on our side this Saturday.”

Then he’s gone.

John shakes his head, perplexed yet slightly amused by the chance encounter. He’s never met someone like Sherlock Holmes before; most likely he’ll never see him again. Besides, he hadn’t even taken down the lotto numbers – so even if they did win, how on earth would the so-called consulting detective know? 

When John leaves the shop that night, it’s fifteen minutes past the end of his shift and he’s clutching a lotto ticket to his chest – and a hope he can’t quite bring himself to voice to his heart. 

 

* * *

 

He’s off work the next day – which happens to be a Saturday – so dutifully, he tunes in to the draw on television at 8 in the evening.

He doesn’t know why he’s bothering, anyway. Really, it’s pointless to sit through this show; John almost dozes off, until the announcer yells, “And now! The winning numbers for the £4 million jackpot!” and he jolts awake, eyes on the telly.

They’re not going to win _,_ obviously. It’s absurd to even think of such a –

He looks down at the scratch ticket, then back up at where the numbers are displayed on the screen.

John’s mouth drops open of its own accord.

 

* * *

 

The next day, Sherlock Holmes waltzes into the convenience store at 11:00. “This is ridiculous,” he announces as soon as he sees John.

“Yeah, well,” John says. “You know how these things go.” A thought occurs to him. “Wait, you didn’t even write the numbers down. How did you know we –”

“I stored them in my mind palace. Obviously,” Sherlock Holmes says, and gives no further explanation.

“Right,” John replies after a moment. He clears his throat awkwardly. “You know, we don’t have to… buy a flat and all that. I mean, we could just split the money and go our own separate ways. I wouldn’t mind, and –”

“Nonsense,” Sherlock Holmes interrupts. “Got my eye on a nice little place in central London already – we ought to be able to afford it now. We’ll meet there tomorrow evening, 7 o’clock.” He turns and strides towards the door.

“Is that it?” John calls after him. 

“Is that what?”

“This – we can’t _do_ this,” John says. “I mean – we’ve only just met!” 

“Problem?”

“We don’t know a thing about each other. I don’t know where we’re meeting. Until three days ago, I didn’t even know your name.”

Sherlock Holmes opens his mouth.

 

* * *

 

At 7 o’clock the next evening, John gets on the tube to 221B Baker Street, finding the address just as Sherlock Holmes is getting out of a cab.

“Mr. Holmes,” he says, offering the man his hand to shake. 

The detective gives him a smile that seems almost devilish. “Sherlock,” he says. “Please.”


End file.
